It seemed absurd to be standing here, hosing down the van, down the block from the bank they had just robbed—his bank. And as the air turned cloudy with steam in the cubicle, Rigley felt more and more that this was a dream, that none of it was happening.
He squeezed the trigger on the water rifle and began the rinse. Red gurgled down the drain, leaving whiteness behind.
This morning, forty-five minutes before Nolan and Jon had come by to pick him up, he had gone into his wife’s room. She was sleeping. Her hair was in curlers; her face was pale, her mouth open. She was snoring, quietly. She did not look pretty. But she didn’t look ugly. She was just Cora, sleeping, snoring, in curlers, in a cream-color nightgown with the covers down around her waist and the plumpness of her bosom reminding him of better times. There was an empty bottle of Scotch on her dresser to remind him of the current state of their marriage.
Julie had been there. With him. Standing behind him. In the bedroom.
She had never been in his house before.
She and Cora had never met.
But now she stood in the bedroom, behind him, Cora snoring quietly in bed a few feet away, and Julie whispered, “Go on. Do it. Now. Here. Take it.”
And he had taken the shotgun from her.
It was heavy. He had never noticed it as being so heavy before. He had gone hunting with it plenty of times. It never seemed heavy to him then.
He raised the shotgun.
He squeezed his eyes shut, felt the wetness dangling between his lids.
He opened his eyes and turned to look at Julie, who was nodding, and back to Cora, who was sleeping, and their images blurred together; they were one person, one beautiful woman he had loved and let dominate him. And he squeezed the trigger.
He squeezed the trigger and squeezed shut his eyes and dropped the gun to the floor and ran blindly out of the room and dropped to his knees in the hallway, sobbing, wanting to scream but the scream getting caught in his chest, as if a webbing in his chest had caught the scream and was holding it there, letting only a rasping, wheezing cough-sound come out of him. And he got to the bathroom in the far part of the house, the one off his study, and hung his head over the stool, but he didn’t vomit. He hadn’t eaten anything for two days; there was nothing there. He just held onto the side of the stool and cried and cried and cried and Julie was patting his shoulder, saying, “There, there.”
Later, moments, minutes—a lifetime later—he looked up at Julie. He was still clinging to the cold porcelain of the stool. His ears rang from the sound of an explosion he hadn’t really heard. He said, “I’m sorry, baby . . . I’m . . . I’m sorry . . . sorry . . .”
“She never felt a thing,” Julie said.
“I . . . don’t know if I can go any . . . further with this.”
She kneeled beside him. She kissed his cheek. She dried his eyes and cheeks with Kleenex.
“We’re going to have to get going, honey,” she said. “You’re going to have to pull yourself together. Jon and Logan’ll be here soon.”
“How . . . how can I wait in the house here with . . . her?”
“Wait outside. Go outside and wait for them. Cold air do you good.”
“I . . . I hate this.”
“The worst is over.”
“Is . . . it? What about the others?”
“My responsibility. Just lead them to me.”
“Like a . . . like a . . . Judas sheep.”
“They’re nothing but thieves, George. Killers and thieves.”
“That . . . that Jon is just a kid. A boy.”
“The two of them are criminals, George. They’d do the same to us, if they had to.”
“They . . . they haven’t. They could have, and they haven’t.”
“Why should they, honey? They’re in this for the money.”
“We forced them.”
“No. They’re in this for the money. That’s the truth. Now get hold of yourself. You all right?”
“All . . . right. I’m all right.”
“Can you compose yourself? At the bank?”
“I’ll be all right.”
“All right. I’ll go get your coat. Stay put.”
She left the bathroom.
He got to his feet.
And walked through the study.
Walked down the hall.
Looked into the bedroom.
At the blue wallpaper. The open-beam wood ceiling. The nightstand with their wedding picture on top. The nightstand drawer was pulled out, to reveal the .32 amidst the jewelry boxes. Julie had thought to open the drawer. The nightmare didn’t touch her, did it? She was. cool, efficient, even in crisis. The girl had a good head on her shoulders.
Which was more than could be said for Cora.
He shuddered.
And looked away.
Then he looked back, and emotion had drained out of him somehow.
Cora wasn’t there. Not really. There was this headless thing in the queen-size bed, a dressmaker’s dummy in a red-spattered cream-color nightgown. And some strange, surrealistic stain of colors—red again was dominant—splashed on the blue-papered wall behind the bed. An abstract painting. Not Cora.
“Don’t,” Julie said.
She was standing behind him again, as she had earlier. She had the shotgun again. She’d be taking it with her. It was part of the plan. To kill Cora and, later, Nolan and Jon, with the same shotgun.
“Don’t look at her,” Julie said.
“Look at who?” he said.
“George. Get out of this room, George.”
“It doesn’t bother me.” His voice sounded remote to him, as though he was speaking down a well and his voice was mingling with its echo. “That’s not her.”
“Come on. Get into your coat and wait outside. They’ll be here soon.”
“Wait with me.”
“George! Snap out of it!” She grabbed his arm and pulled him out into the hall. “Snap out of it. I’ll be here. Inside. But those two can’t see me, George. I’m not supposed to be here! George? We’ve gone over this a thousand times, George. Goddammit!”
“I’ll wait outside.”
She sighed. And smiled. A tight-lipped little smile. “I’ll help you with your coat. Here. Now. They should be along in fifteen minutes or so. Stand out there and relax.”
Julie would wait till Nolan and Jon had picked Rigley up in the van, and then she would leave, out the back way, and walk on foot to where she had left her car.
Rigley went outside and stood in the chill air. The cold felt good. He wished it were even colder. He wished it would freeze him.
The gun was empty. Some more rinse was needed. He deposited two more quarters, then squeezed the trigger on the water rifle. Red gurgled down the drain, leaving whiteness behind.
Nolan and Jon were getting out of the back of the van. Both wore the hunting jackets. Nolan wore tan trousers and a dark blue woolen turtleneck sweater. Jon wore the T-shirt with the cartoon figure of a pinheaded man on it, and blue jeans. Nolan had a green garbage bag; inside the bag were the Santa Claus suits.
“You about done?” Nolan asked Rigley. Nolan was tying a knot in the neck of the big plastic bag.
“Yes,” Rigley said.
The van was white now. It had been painted with a water-base paint, and stencils had been placed on the sides while it was being painted so that the “TOYS FOR TIKES” lettering had been formed from the natural white beneath.
Nolan opened the garage-type door and peeked out into the alley.
“All clear,” he said.
He put the green garbage bag with the costumes in it next to some similar bags set out for trash pickup by the filling station management.
Rigley got back in the back of the van. Nolan shut the doors on him. Darkness swallowed him up again.
Then they were moving. Out of the car wash, out of town. To Rigley’s cottage. Where Julie and the shotgun waited
16
SHE UNFOLDED the plastic sheet. It had come off a roll and
had been folded up like a huge tablecloth. She’d bought it months ago, at a paint store, with today’s purpose in mind. She began spreading the sheet across the floor, and when she was done, it covered nearly half the room—from the doorway, past the couch, on to the edge of the fireplace. She smoothed it, as though making a bed. Then she moved to the other side of the room and sat at the picnic-style table over near the bar. The windows in the cottage were shuttered, and none of the lights were turned on; there was nothing to catch the plastic surface and reflect. They wouldn’t notice the sheet of plastic when they came in, not until they’d stepped on it, heard it crinkle underfoot, and they wouldn’t begin to have time to realize that the plastic was there to catch the bloody mess they’d make, dying. Because they’d be dead already. The moment they stepped in the door.
She got herself a drink.
Her hand was steady, or as steady as could be expected, anyway. She would admit to butterflies in her stomach, but she wasn’t what you’d call nervous, not really; not any worse than waiting to go on stage in one of those beauty pageants she’d been in years before. Anyway, the Scotch and soda felt good going down. Warm, despite the ice. It settled her, calmed her.
She glanced at her watch: 7:55. The robbery itself should be over by now. They’d be getting in the van soon (if they weren’t already) and driving down the alley and into the car wash. They could be here in fifteen minutes. Twenty, at most. At the very most.
The hairy part was she liked them. The young one, especially. Jon. George was right: Jon really was just a boy, a decent kid who’d somehow gotten mixed up with the older guy, the man she knew as Logan. If she could have thought of a way to spare the boy, she would have. And she’d take no pleasure in killing Nolan, either. She felt a sort of kinship with the man, though she didn’t really understand why. She felt she had something in common with him, that they were somehow alike.
But she wasn’t about to let any soft feelings about those two make it hard for her; killing them was an unpleasant but necessary part of what she and George set out to do. So it would be done.
And it would sure as hell be easier than this morning, she thought, sipping her Scotch, shaking her head.
She hadn’t planned to be there with George, in the beginning. Ideally, George should have been able to carry out that end of it himself. But the more she’d thought about it, the more she knew he wouldn’t be up to it without her beside him, supporting him, putting the gun in his hands. All but pulling the damn trigger for him.
It had been a risk, her being there. She’d made sure no one had any chance of seeing her go in or out of the place, but it was still a risk. Though after seeing how George had handled it, she was goddamn glad she’d been there. Oh, he’d managed to do it, managed to shoot the bitch, all right, but he’d gotten flaky as hell afterwards. Off his fucking nut. Thank God she’d been there to soothe him, to get him on his feet for the rest of the ordeal.
She looked at her watch again: not long now. Ten minutes and they could be here.
She finished her drink, got up from the table, and went into the bedroom.
The shotgun lay on the bed.
Twin barrels. Twin triggers. Sleek, black gun with walnut stock.
She’d practiced with it, in the wooded area around the cottage. Nothing elaborate; aim at a tree and hit it, that’s all she needed to be able to do. It’d be close range. Just so she had the feel of the gun—was used to its kick. She’d have to fire twice, after all, and had to be ready to reload and shoot again, if something should go wrong.
In a few minutes, it would all be over—all but the final few grisly steps. She and George would transfer the bodies to the van; George would return to Port City to play bereaved widower; and she, after nightfall, would drive the van and its gory cargo and leave it along the side of a nearby (but not too nearby) back road. The shotgun would be thrown in the river. The authorities would be looking for the nonexistent third member of the robbery team, the man who had “held Cora Rigley hostage” while Nolan and Jon looted the bank, the man who killed Cora Rigley when she tried to take a gun from her jewelry drawer and defend herself, the man who then double-crossed and killed his two partners and disappeared with all that money.
It gave her a sense of satisfaction to have fooled a pro like Nolan. The crucial thing had been to make him accept the idea of Cora Rigley as hostage. George had insisted to Nolan it was necessary; he’d said that a bank president who is the victim of two bank robberies within so short a span of time is going to look somewhat silly and incompetent no matter what, but at least with his wife in jeopardy, some sympathy would be aroused. Besides, it would keep everyone at the bank from contacting the police right away. Nolan, of course, had balked at involving George’s wife, but George had explained she wouldn’t be involved at all—that Cora was a drunk who slept till noon; that he would cut their phone wires the morning of the robbery; that their second car was in the shop, leaving Cora stranded there at home.
“What about later,” Nolan had wanted to know, “when your wife is questioned about being a hostage and knows nothing about it?”
George had explained, “I’ll say you people grabbed me outside the house and that I never actually saw one of the thieves with my wife.”
And, finally, Nolan had agreed the wife-as-hostage angle was worth including.
And it certainly was.
She smiled, sat on the bed, and cradled the shotgun in her lap, thinking about what life would be like as a millionaire’s wife.
When she walked out with the shotgun into the other room, she was totally unprepared for the door to open and the two figures in hunting jackets to enter. It was too early. She hadn’t heard the van approach. They couldn’t be here yet.
But they were.
She fired the shotgun.
One barrel at a time.
And the two men in hunting jackets, the older man and the young one, too, caught the full blast and lifted off the floor and flopped bloodily back down again on the crinkly plastic shroud.
17
JON WAS GLAD it was almost over. Flat, snow-covered farmland glided by as he drove the van along at a leisurely forty-five, the blacktop road not devoid of traffic, but damn near. Nolan sat next to Jon, looking almost bored; he hadn’t said a word since leaving Port City out this back door of a blacktop. Jon’s hands were sweaty on the wheel. The gun in his belt was a lump nudging his belly like something not fully digested. Like a reminder of what might have happened at the bank, had anything gone wrong. Of the ugly kind of things that can happen when a robbery goes haywire.
Like that time, a few months ago, at the Comfort farm. A simple job. Simple and potentially less dangerous than today’s. And yet it had turned into a nightmare of guns going off and people dying. People getting killed.
One of them by him.
He felt the gun in his belt under the jacket, pressing into his gut, and thought, Thank God I’m not going to have to use this fucking thing.
“No shooting,” Nolan had told him last night. “This job’s not worth the risk. We got money. We aren’t desperate. So if we get caught—well, okay, we make bail, get our asses out of the country. But if we start shooting, somebody might get killed, and they don’t offer bail when somebody’s killed.”
“No shooting,” Jon had nodded, relieved. “That means we’ll be getting rid of the guns right after the robbery, then, right? At the car wash, when we hose down the van and dump those Santa suits?”
“No.”
“No?”
“We’ll hang on to the guns a while after that.”
“I thought you said no shooting.”
“Unless somebody shoots at us first.”
“You don’t mean cops . . . ?”
“Christ no! Don’t ever shoot at a cop. Jesus!”
“Then what the hell are you talking about, Nolan?”
“I’m not talking about cops, that’s for goddamn sure.”
“Well, who else is there . . . ? Oh. I see what
you mean. You . . . you really think that’s a possibility?”
“Rigley and his bitch crossing us? Yes. If it was just Rigley, I’d say no. But it isn’t just Rigley. So stay alert.”
Jon’s mental replay of the conversation of the night before ended as he pulled onto the blacktop off of which was Rigley’s cottage. When they passed the run-down shack-on-stilts that was Rigley’s closest neighbor, Nolan said to stop a moment: there was a car, a Buick Electra, parked next to the shack. Then he said go on. Jon did.
Jon was swinging the van down the tree-sheltered drive to the cottage when they heard the sound. “What the hell was that?”
“Gunfire,” Nolan said, getting the .38 out of his belt.
“Gunfire?”
“Shotgun.”
Jon brought the van to a halt alongside the yellow Mustang that belonged to the girl.
“Watch that fucker Rigley,” Nolan said. He hopped out of the van.
Jon did the same. He wiped the sweat off his hand, took the .38 from out of his belt and went around to the back of the van and let a white-faced Rigley out.
“What’s going on?” the banker said.
“You tell me,” Jon said, and motioned at him with the .38.
Nolan had already disappeared inside the cottage, and Jon’s teeth were clamped together in tense anticipation of further sounds from within the cottage.
He grabbed Rigley by the elbow and prodded him with the gun and pushed him forward, toward the cottage. The scary part was Rigley made no protest; a little indignation from the man would have gone a long way toward easing Jon’s fears.
The door was open, but Jon couldn’t see in. The cottage was set up too high for that; you’d have to climb the wooden steps to see what was going on in there.
He stood outside in the cold air for a few long moments, digging the gun barrel into Rigley’s back, wishing to hell something would happen and at the same time that it wouldn’t.
“Come on in, kid,” Nolan’s voice said from inside. “There’s an old friend of yours here.”
Jon shoved Rigley toward the door, up the steps. Inside.
Hard Cash Page 11